


and if you're ever around

by liyals



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Brief Mentions Of Rape, M/M, Rough Sex, lots and lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liyals/pseuds/liyals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian stays holed up in bed for two whole days after The Incident. He tells everyone he’s sick, listens as Fiona calls his school and makes an excuse. Watches as his family slowly trickles out of the house. Lays on his back and thinks of anything but Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely unbeta'd and probably has a couple of mistakes in there, sorry about that!
> 
> Also, I think I covered the warnings in the tags, but please let me know if there's anything potentially triggering I may have missed and I'll add it. 
> 
> Right, well, enjoy? :D

Ian stays holed up in bed for two whole days after The Incident. He tells everyone he’s sick, listens as Fiona calls his school and makes an excuse. Watches as his family slowly trickles out of the house. Lays on his back and thinks of anything but Mickey.

Ian is generally a pretty… stable person. Stable and rational. He accepts defeat well, handles heartache better than most. But something about Mickey throws him off. And he hates it. He wants to reach down into that tangle of emotion in his gut and fucking kill it because who the hell does Mickey Milkovich think he is? Is he even _sorry_ about what he did, about the way he made him feel? Does he know he’s the reason Ian hasn’t been able to move for forty-eight hours? Because if he is and he does, that just… that makes it worse somehow.

Lip walks in on the third day and casually yanks the blanket off him. “Get up.”  
  
Ian groans, reaching down to wrap himself in it again. “Didn’t Fiona tell you? I’m sick.”  
  
“She told me you told her you were sick,” Lip says. He pulls the covers off him again and Ian makes a faint noise of protest. “But I know you’re full of shit.”  
  
Ian buries his face in his pillow, trying to block him out.  
  
“I’m not going away, you know.” Lip sits down on the edge of Ian’s bed, jostling his foot as he does. “So pretending to be asleep isn’t going to help.”  
  
“Not pretending,” he mumbles.  
  
“Just came back from the hospital. The doctors are saying it doesn’t look good for her.”  
  
Ian doesn’t bother asking who. He’d heard about what happened to Karen but he hasn’t been able to muster up any real sympathy thus far.  
  
“Even if she pulls through, they say they think she might have permanent brain damage. Or might need to be in a chair. Like, for good.”  
  
Ian grunts.  
  
“I sat with her for a while. Her mom’s pretty broken up, I’m going back later tonight.”  
  
Ian finally turns his head to face Lip, making sure to only keep his good side visible. No sense in alarming him when he’s already got his shit to deal with.  
  
“Thought maybe you’d want to come with me.”  
  
Ian lets out an incredulous-sounding noise. “Why would I want to do that?”  
  
“I don’t know. To see what real problems look like, maybe.”  
  
Ian grits his teeth, his battered temple throbbing as he does. Lip is just baiting him. He’d be stupid to fall for it. “Fuck you.”  
  
“Look who finally found his voice.” Lip looks amused. “Got tired of lying around feeling sorry for yourself?”  
  
“I’m not…” Ian closes his eyes against a sharp shooting pain. His cheekbone this time. “Feeling sorry for myself.”  
  
“Sure you are,” Lip says cheerfully. “What is it this time? Bomb another Chemistry test? How will you _ever_ get yourself killed now?”  
  
“I don’t have to listen to this.” Ian pushes himself off the bed angrily, not sure where’s headed but sure that he can’t be here anymore. He hears Lip’s breath catch in his throat as he catches sight of his face.  
  
“Jesus, Ian. What the hell happened?”  
  
“Nothing,” Ian says, turning away as he snatches up a jacket and shrugs into it. “Nothing happened, I’m fine.”  
  
“You’re not fucking fine, I know what fine looks like.” Lip surges forward, eyes narrowed as he inspects the bruises. “Who was it?”  
  
“Seriously, it’s not a big deal.” Ian backs away again, sifting through the pile of clothes on the ground for his jeans. “It’s a lot better than it was before, it’s okay.”  
  
“What do you mean, it’s a lot better? How bad was it?” Lip grabs his arms, forcing him to stop searching. “Look at me for a fucking second, okay?”  
  
Ian looks at him.  
  
“Is this what’s gotten you so messed up?” Lip winces as he gets a look at one of the nastier-looking cuts near his forehead. “What, did you get in a fight at school?”  
  
Ian is all prepared to nod. He’s all prepared to lie to Lip’s face, to try and get him off his back for the time-being. Because the Gallagher brothers get into fights with the pricks at school all the time. It’ll be brushed off and shoved under the rug and Lip will make an excuse so he doesn’t have to go back anytime soon. And that’ll be it. And that’s what he wants, isn’t it?  
  
Ian sinks down on the bed, all the fight suddenly going out of him. “No.”  
  
Lip lifts an eyebrow. “No?”  
  
“No, I didn’t get in a fight at school,” Ian says. “Mickey hit me.”  
  
Lip doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Ian thinks this might be the first time he’s seen anything truly render him speechless.  
  
“Look, it’s not…” Ian scrubs a hand across his face. “It’s not like this happens all the time or anything. I found out about something and I went to confront him and it just… got ugly.”  
  
“I’ll say.” Lip shakes his head. Ian watches as several emotions flit across his face. “Do you want me to go kick his ass?”  
  
“No,” Ian says quickly. “No. Lip, seriously, don’t. I just want it to go away.”  
  
Lip sits down next to him on the bed, still looking shell-shocked. “It being?”  
  
“Him. This.” He gestures to his face. “All of it, I guess.”  
  
“Wow.” Lip lets out a long breath.  
  
Ian laughs, a short humorless sound. “Yeah.”  
  
“So, uh… what was it?”  
  
“What was what?” Ian asks tiredly, though he’s pretty sure he knows.  
  
“What did you confront him about? The thing that got you all fucked up?”  
  
Ian lies back on the bed, legs dangling off the side and stares up at the ceiling. “He’s getting married.”  
  
“But isn’t he…”  
  
“Yeah, he is. At least I think he is. But he’s trying not to be.”  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
“I know.”

* * *

 

Mandy calls Ian later that evening, soon after Lip takes off to go see Karen. Her voice is breathless and strained and full of some unidentifiable emotion he’s never heard from her before.  
  
“Can you come over?”  
  
He rubs at his eyes, still not fully awake. “What’s going on?”  
  
“I have something I need to tell you. And I can’t say it over the phone.”  
  
He pauses. There are very few things that can make Mandy sound like this and all make his blood run cold. “Did your dad…”  
  
“No, no, nothing like that. Dad hasn’t even been home the last few days, he’s been out doing shit for the big wedding.” She says ‘the big wedding’ in a mocking, sarcastic way and it feels like she’s just punched Ian squarely in the chest.  
  
“So what – ”  
  
“Ian, just come. Please.”  
  
“Is...” He clears his throat. “Is anyone else home?”  
  
“No, it’s just me. Hurry, okay?”

Ian hurries.  
  
Mandy’s sitting in the middle of her bed when he slowly eases her door open. Her knees are drawn up close to her chest and her head is down. He’s never seen her look this small or defeated in his life.  
  
“Mandy?” He closes the door behind, trying not to think about the jumble of emotions he’d felt at being back here after all these weeks. Trying not to think about what had happened the last time he was here, what it had led to.  
  
She looks up then, relaxing when she sees that it’s only him. “Thanks for coming.”  
  
“You sounded like hell on the phone.” He comes over to sit next to her and she automatically shifts closer to him. “What’s going on?”  
  
When she just rubs at her forehead with the heel of her hand, he sighs and stares around at her room. It’s pretty sparse, definitely not the way the way you’d expect a teenage girl’s room to look, and he realizes how much she’s come to think of his place as home.  
  
“Whenever you’re ready,” he finally says. “You’re, uh… you’re sure we’re alone here, right?”  
  
“I told you,” she says impatiently. “My dad won’t be back for a couple of days and Mickey’s… I don’t even know. Hardly here anymore.”  
  
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. “Okay.”  
  
“Listen,” she says after a moment, and he looks up. There’s a nearly inaudible tremor in her voice, but he’s known her long enough to know she’s scared shitless. Of what, he has no fucking idea. “I did something.”  
  
“Okay?” He nods, hoping it’ll reassure her.  
  
She falls silent again, gnawing on her lower lip.  
  
“Look, whatever it was, it can’t be that bad.”  
  
“It’s not,” she blurts out. “I didn’t… don’t think it is. But if Lip finds out…” She shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s ever going to forgive me.”  
  
“Don’t be stupid, what – ”  
  
He hears the front door open (slam open, to put it more precisely) and he freezes, hand involuntarily clenching into a fist. “You said your dad wasn’t going to be home!”  
  
“He’s not.” Mandy shoves him in the chest. “Calm down, it’s probably just Mickey or one of my brothers.” She rolls toward the side of the bed, probably to confirm this, but her room door bursts open before she has a chance.  
  
Ian flinches until he realizes it’s only Lip. Lip, who has a cold, dead look in his eyes, who won’t look away from Mandy.  
  
“Lip, what the hell are you doing here?” Ian gets up, cautiously moving toward him. He’s never seen Lip look like this. The way he’s breathing, the determined set of his jaw. He’s practically unrecognizable.  
  
“Ian, go wait outside, okay?” Lip sounds surprisingly calm as he issues the order.  
  
“Do I look fucking stupid to you?” Ian almost laughs. “Not when you look like this. Just… sit down, okay? Or at least tell us whose ass we have to kick.”  
  
“Ian,” Lip says. “Wait outside.”  
  
Ian darts a nervous glance at Mandy. “Lip…”  
  
“I’m not going to hurt her,” Lip says, looking disgusted. “Give me some fucking credit. I just want to talk to her and I don’t think you want to stick around for what I have to say.”  
  
Ian doesn’t move.  
  
Lip shrugs. “Or maybe you do.”  
  
“Ian,” says Mandy, sounding panicked. “Wait outside. Please.”  
  
It’s the _please_ that does it. He trusts Lip, even if he looks like he’s ready to do someone some serious damage, and he trusts Mandy to come get him if anything bad happens. He squeezes Mandy’s knee and smacks Lip on the arm before making his way out of the tense bedroom.  
  
He’s standing on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and listening to Lip and Mandy’s muffled voices yelling at each other (well, Lip’s yelling. Mandy seems to be pleading) when Mickey stumbles around the corner. There’s a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers and when he looks up and sees Ian standing there, the look on his face is eerily similar to how Lip had looked when he walked in.  
  
Ian doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to react. He’d been so busy worrying about Terry getting back early (hey, he’d done it before) that he’d never imagined he might run into Mickey here. And now that he has, now that he's standing only a few feet away, his brain freezes and he can’t think of a single fucking word. Not that he really wants to speak to Mickey anyway, not when the bruises littering his face still hurt like a bitch.  
  
Something in Mickey’s expression shifts when he catches sight of Ian’s face though. Not softens exactly, just changes. And just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanishes, only to be replaced by Mickey’s signature scowl. All the walls back up again.  
  
“The fuck are you doing here, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, not looking directly him. He doesn’t sound entirely sober, though the bottle in his hands had been kind of a tip-off. Ian’s heart hurts at the sound of his voice and his pulse rises at the callousness in his tone.  
  
He’s all prepared to answer (though he’s not sure what he’s going to say) when the front door slams open and Lip comes barrelling out. He’s moving too fast for Ian to get a look at his face and he doesn’t acknowledge him as he strides away from the house as fast as he possibly can. Mandy comes flying out of the house only seconds later, face tear-stained and distraught as she follows him. Ian automatically turns to look at Mickey, who’s watching the scene impassively. He doesn’t spare Ian so much as a glance before taking another long swig from the bottle and unsteadily walking toward the front door.  
  
He’s reached the stairs by the time Ian finds his voice. He can’t stomach the thought that this might be the last time he’ll see Mickey in god knows who long. Can’t have this be the last memory he has of him.  
  
“So when’s the wedding?” he asks, voice cracking.  
  
Mickey stops but doesn’t turn around.  
  
“Still waiting for my invitation,” Ian says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Probably shouldn’t hold my breath, huh?”  
  
Mickey begins to walk again, almost at the front door now.  
  
“You’re a fucking coward,” Ian spits, feeling those treacherous tears threatening to make an appearance again. “You’re a fucking coward for leaving me lying there. And you’re a fucking coward because you won’t even turn around and look at me.” He shakes his head, realizing what a lost cause this is. Why does he bother? Time and time again, all Mickey does is disappoint him and make him feel like crap. “I’m done,” he says quietly, so quietly he’s not sure Mickey can hear him. “I hope you and your little girlfriend… I’m sorry, _wife_. I hope you’re really happy together.”  
  
And now he can go. Now he can leave. He’s walked three steps before someone yanks him around roughly and he automatically braces himself for a blow that never comes. Mickey is breathing heavily and looking at him like he’s never seen him before in his life. The hand he’d used to grab him is back at his side again.  
  
“It’s her,” Mickey says, voice heavy. “You fucking happy now? It’s _her_.”  
  
Ian doesn’t have to ask who he means. The image of Mickey lying less than five feet away, the hooker on top of him. The expression of unfiltered helplessness on his face, that look he hasn’t been able to get out of his head in weeks. He doesn’t respond, just stares.  
  
“Yeah, didn’t even think of that, huh? It’s not some whore I’ve been doing on the side. It’s her. So now you fucking know.” He turns away like he can’t bear to look at him anymore and then he’s walking away, back to his house and away from Ian.  
  
And Ian is left standing there, hands curled into fists by his sides and head spinning. But if there’s one thing he knows for damn sure, it’s that those are not going to be the last words Mickey Milkovich ever says to him. He’s bounding after him before he even realizes what he’s doing, following him into his house and into his now-familiar bedroom.  
  
Mickey doesn’t even react when Ian bursts into his bedroom, just stubs his cigarette out against his wall. “Get out before I have to make you, Gallagher.”  
  
Ian lets out a slightly manic-sounding laugh. “What are you gonna do, beat the crap out of me and leave me bleeding out in the middle of nowhere? Oh wait, you already did that.”  
  
“I’m warning you – ”  
  
“No, _I’m_ warning you,” Ian says, a dangerous note in his voice he barely recognizes. “That you don’t get to do this. You can get married, you can raise a goddamn family, but you don’t get to act like we never meant anything to each other. And you definitely don’t get to say shit like that and just walk away.”  
  
Mickey laughs, low and disbelieving. “I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been smoking but – ”  
  
And Ian snaps, just like that. He’s across the room in less than a second, a hand fisted in Mickey’s tank top as he propels him backward with strength he didn’t realize he had. He can practically feel the wall shake as Mickey slams into it, can feel Mickey’s sharp intake of breath.  
  
“Don’t,” he says, surprisingly steady.  
  
And he’s not quite sure how it happens but suddenly Mickey’s scrabbling uselessly at the front of his jeans and his hands are pulling Mickey’s tank top off his head and they’re staggering toward the bed. But Ian’s still fired up and angry and he hates that this is all he’s good for as far as Mickey’s concerned. A quick, frenzied fuck and then Mickey can pretend to be straight, to be normal again. Not today. If this is the last time, Mickey’s goddamn well going to feel every second of it.  
  
He pushes Mickey onto his back and though Mickey attempts to turn and lie on his stomach, do it the way they normally do, Ian’s not having it. He hauls him back around to face him, kneeling in front of him and reaching blindly for the lube while Mickey unbuttons his pants and slides them down his legs.  
  
There’s something that looks awfully like trepidation in Mickey’s eyes when Ian gets his owns jeans undone and lets them pool at his ankles. But Ian doesn’t want to think about that. He’s too busy thinking of all the shit Mickey’s put him through the last few weeks. The way he’d steadfastly ignored him on the roof, the way he’d ducked all his calls and skipped work. The way he’d thrown him to the ground and hit him until he was a writhing, bleeding mess. How he’d had to pick himself up, dust himself off, and limp home alone.  
  
There’s not enough lube, he knows, and it’s going to hurt, but Mickey doesn’t protest when he sees him cap the bottle and set it aside. Ian strokes himself quickly, once, twice, and then he’s lining himself up and roughly shouldering Mickey’s legs.  
  
Mickey looks like he wants to say something. His mouth is partly open, his eyes are wide and disarmingly honest, but Ian’s not ready to hear it. He pushes in without warning, eliciting a partially stifled gasp of pain from Mickey. He doesn’t say a word though, doesn’t ask him to stop. Just grits his teeth and pushes back.  
  
And so Ian slams his hips forward again. And again.  
  
 _You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me._ Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, clenching around Ian. His hands are fisted tightly in the scruffy duvet. “Fuck,” he bites out shakily, probably without meaning to, and then promptly falls silent again. It must hurt, it has to, but he seems to be making a real effort not to let it show. To keep it inside.  
  
Mickey’s usually the noisy one, both in and out of bed. Ian is good at keeping his mouth shut, but he can’t this time. He can’t understand half of what he mumbles as he moves but he knows that he’s not quiet about it. Mickey though... Mickey who always has some semi-clever insult on the tip of his tongue, he just lies there and takes it.  
  
 _Feel better now._ Ian doesn’t know how long they go at it, how long he pounds in and out of Mickey, but it feels like no time at all. When he finally comes, the intensity of it takes him by surprise, and he realizes how long it’s been since they were together like this. He lets out a long groan, slowly emptying himself inside Mickey and feeling the tension leave his shoulders and back. He doesn’t know if Mickey finds his own release though, because he pulls out almost immediately after. Doesn’t want to feel that familiar clenching, doesn’t want to hear Mickey’s creative cursing as he comes the way he does everything else, hard and dirty.  
  
He looks down at Mickey just one more time. He’s lying on his back, eyes still closed, face pinched with what’s probably a mixture of pleasure and pain. And, almost as though he senses Ian’s eyes on his face, he looks at him. Opens his eyes and gives him the saddest fucking look he’s ever seen in his life.  
  
But it’s not enough. And so Ian grabs his clothes and climbs into them faster than he ever has, facing away from Mickey as he pulls his shirt on and buttons his jeans. And when he’s done, he’s the one to walk away, to leave Mickey lying broken and spent and alone


	2. Chapter 2

Ian does a good job of not thinking about Mickey for the next week or so. He has plenty of stuff to distract him, thankfully (like schoolwork and Lip’s upcoming graduation party), and he throws himself into it wholeheartedly. He finds himself actually studying in the time not spent helping Debbie decorate the house or Fiona run around trying to get a cheap caterer.

He’s put in charge of the cake on the big day and he gets the biggest one in the store, an obnoxiously chocolaty mess with _Congratulations Smarty-Pants_ scrawled on the top. It should all be fun, organizing a party, celebrating his brother’s success, but he just feels… blank somehow. Empty. Like he’s just going through the motions of it all. It’s a pretty shitty feeling and he vows to put on a more convincing show when Lip actually gets there. Lip doesn’t deserve to have his day ruined just because Ian can’t seem to get a grip.

If Lip had figured out about the party beforehand, he doesn’t let it show in his expression. He looks so genuinely touched when he walks in and sees the way the house is decked out that Ian immediately feels good about his contribution. Debbie runs squealing to him and wraps her arms around his middle tightly, telling him how proud she is. Fiona gives him a hug of her own, eyes brimming with happy tears. Carl gives him one of those manly back-slaps before skulking back to the kitchen with one of his presents. No one bothers to try and stop him. Jimmy’s nowhere to be found, but considering how things have been with him and Fiona it’s not really a surprise.

Ian plasters on his most sincere-looking smile and goes to hug Lip as well. He hands him his presents (some money he’d scraped together from working at the store and a secondhand copy of a Physics book written by some famous scientist dude) and Lip looks positively ecstatic.

“Dude, these are great.” He gives him another hug, grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks, man. You didn’t have to.”

And once he’s shown his face and congratulated the guest of honor, he feels entirely justified in grabbing a pack of smokes and spending the rest of the party out on the front porch. If anyone asks, he’ll say he’s waiting to greet people as they come in. As though the guest list had been long enough for that.

He’s been out there for almost fifteen minutes when a nervous-looking Mandy slowly approaches, eyeing the front door as she does.

“Hey,” she says, and he looks up.

“Hey yourself.” He narrows his eyes in surprise. Lip hasn't told him the full story yet, he’d been too worked up when he got home and the subject just hasn’t come up since, but Ian’s managed to piece it together himself. And while he obviously doesn’t condone hitting people with cars for sport, she’s his best friend and he’s sure she had a good reason. “Did you come to congratulate Lip?”

She scoffs. “Like he’d even look at me.”

“So…” He takes another puff of his cigarette before throwing it into the grass and giving her his full attention.

“Maybe I came to see you,” she says stubbornly.

Ian cocks an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Sure I did.” She sits next to him on the stairs, straightening her tiny skirt as she does. He catches her throwing another quick glance at the door. “So, uh… what’s up?”

Ian would laugh if the whole thing wasn’t so tragic. “You know. Same old. What about you?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” She’s not even trying to hide how distracted she is. “Dad’s back, so I’m trying to spend as little time at home as I can.”

“That must mean the…” He coughs, not wanting to say the word out loud. “They’ll have the thing soon.”

“If by thing you mean wedding, then yeah.” She laughs. “Thursday, I think.”

“Thursday? As in, this Thursday?”

“That’s what I said.” She shakes her head, grabbing his cigarette pack out of his hands and pulling one out. “The whole thing’s a fucking joke. The only person who wants it to happen is my dad. Mickey’s been looking like death warmed over for days.”

Ian lets out a breath slowly, watching it curl and dissipate in the cool evening air. Thursday. This Thursday. Three days from now. Three fucking days from now, Mickey’ll promise to love some stranger till he dies. He wants to throw up.

“Hey,” Mandy says, evidently oblivious. “You should come with me. Dad’s making me go and there’s no reason I should have to suffer through it alone.”

Ian laughs and it sounds bitter even to him. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Mandy demands.

“I have a…” He waves a hand vaguely. “I have a thing.”

“A thing? What thing?”

“Just a thing. Jesus, Mandy.”

“Ian Gallagher, is there – ”

But she trails off when the door opens behind them and they hear someone clear their throat. Ian doesn’t even have to turn around to know it’s Lip.

“I should, um.” Mandy stands, looking flustered. She tosses the cigarette pack to Ian, shooting him a lost, helpless look. “Get going. See you later, okay?”

Ian watches her saunter away, feeling a pang of sympathy as she briefly turns back. She loves Lip, probably more than even she realizes, and yet she’s beginning to realize they can’t work, no matter how many things she does for him or how badly she wants him. It sorta breaks his heart.

“You okay, dude?” Lip takes Mandy’s place beside him, looking largely unruffled by her departure.

“Sure.”

“And the award for best liar goes to…”

“Seriously,” Ian says. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. Go back in, enjoy your party.”

“Between you and me, I think everyone in there’s having way more fun than I am.”

Ian sighs, pocketing the cigarette packet and staring out at the empty backyard. “Debs and Fiona went all out, they really wanted to make sure you had a good time.”

“And I did, don’t get me wrong. It’s just…” Lip leans forward, rubbing his hands together. “You know me, parties aren’t really my thing. At least those kinds of parties.”

“Mm.”

“So what was she doing here?” Lip asks, cocking his head toward the street.

“I think she came to see how you were.”

“More like if there was any chance I’d take her back.” Lip curls his lip in disgust.

“You’re really never going to forgive her, are you?”

Lip shrugs. “I don’t like the word never. But right now, with Karen like, inches away from death or at least a permanent handicap, it doesn’t feel like I am.”

“She loves you.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Makes it easier to understand though.”

Lip doesn’t reply, just blows on his hands.

“Mickey’s getting married this Thursday.” He’s not sure why he says it except that it’s all he can think about. That phrase has been dancing around his brain, knocking against the sides of his skull ever since the words left Mandy’s mouth.

Lip turns to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “That soon?”

Ian shrugs. “Looks like it.”

“You gonna go?”

“How stupid do I look to you exactly?”

Lip snorts. “Didn’t think so.”

Silence descends again, more thoughtful than uncomfortable.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Lip’s tone is deceivingly casual. “I didn’t realize it until now but… like. You are, right?”

Ian is about to tell him what an idiot he’d be to think that when he feels his eyes begin to prickle. Blinking furiously, he turns his head to stare in the opposite direction. It feels like he’s been on the verge of tears for weeks now, constantly toeing the line between okay and really-not-fucking-okay. He’s horrified at himself because he’s always been so good at keeping his emotions in check (you have to be if you want to be in the army, right?) but now he’s just a mess and it sucks.

Lip sighs loudly beside him. “Wow. I’m sorry, dude.”

And then, probably sensing that Ian wants to be left alone, he pats him gently on the back before getting up and re-joining his party.

 

Lip comes to sit beside Ian on his bed once Carl’s gone to sleep. Ian raises his head from where it had been buried in his pillow and gives him a tired smile. Lip wordlessly hands him a still-smouldering joint and Ian accepts it, sticking it in his mouth and slowly sitting upright.

“Did you mean what you said?” Lip asks. Carl stirs and they both turn to look at him, but he just rolls over and goes back to sleep.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you told me you wanted it all to go away. Did you mean it?”

Ian wipes the lingering sleep from his eyes, not sure why Lip had woken him up to ask him this. “I don’t know. I guess? Yeah. Yeah, I meant it. Why?”

Lip shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure.”

They’ve been sitting in silence for almost a full minute before Lip gets up, retrieves a piece of paper from a drawer near Ian’s bed and holds it out to him.

“I’ve already seen it,” Ian says, giving him a confused look. “Remember? When Fiona was threatening to frame it.”

“I’m not showing it to you, dumbass.” Lip laughs as he drops the diploma into Ian’s lap. “I’m giving it to you.”

Now thoroughly bewildered, Ian unconsciously runs his fingers along the side of the paper. “What exactly am I supposed to do with your high school diploma?”

Lip’s expression is infuriatingly knowing. “Come on.”

“Come on, what?”

“You can take it down to a recruiting officer,” Lip finally says. “And pretend to be me.”

Ian opens and closes his mouth twice before he realizes how stupid he must look. “Have you been taking insane pills? Why would I do that?”

“Because being here’s killing you. And looking at you being all mopey and depressed is killing me. So… I’m offering you a way out.”

Ian stares down at the diploma in his hands for several seconds, not sure how to process what Lip is telling him. He’s saying he doesn’t have to be stuck here anymore. He’s telling him he may not have to be here while Mickey embarks on his big lie. But it _can’t_ work, how can it? Things don’t just _work out_ for Ian, not without a lot of pushing and prodding and yanking at least, and he’s not sure he has the energy for all that anymore.

“Just think about it, okay?” Lip knocks him on the head before getting up and heading toward his own bed.

“Fiona won’t like it,” Ian says despite himself. “She’ll want me to finish school.”

“So don’t tell her,” Lip says, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s your life, man. You can do what you want with it.” He’s climbing into his bed when he turns back to give Ian one last meaningful look. “At least this way you have options.”

Ian thinks about it, all of it, all night. Runs it through his mind several times, goes through all the possible ways he could do it, all the lasting repercussions it could have on his life and his family. But the only thing that stands out through all of it is the overwhelming feeling of relief at possibly being a hundred miles away one day, maybe sooner than he’d planned. Of not having to feel like this anymore. It’s like a fucking tanker truck’s been sitting on his chest for three weeks and someone’s offering to help pull it off of him.

His mind is made up before six am the next morning.

 

He doesn’t tell Fiona, Debbie or Carl anything. He doesn’t think he can deal with their reactions and he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary. He does his research, finds out where the recruiting officer is and sets up a meeting.

No one is home the day he’s supposed to leave, which he supposes is a good thing. He scribbles a note explaining where he’s gone but not why. Hopefully they’ll understand, hopefully they won’t be too mad when he gets back.

He takes one last look around the house before he walks out of the front door. At the stained-beyond-redemption carpet, Lip’s precious TV. Carl’s partially-melted action figures. Debbie’s daycare stuff, dolls and bottles and bags of diapers. At the kitchen, the table they’d sat at for what feels like a million meals. And then he forces himself to look away because he’s afraid he might change his mind. And then he hitches his bag higher on his shoulder and shuts the door behind him on his way out.

* * *

Eleven.

Eleven-oh-one.

Eleven-oh-two.

Mickey watches the clock through heavily-lidded eyes. There’s a bottle in his hands, there always is, and it’s something cheap and foul-smelling. He doesn’t care though. It goes down easy after the first sip.

He’s in the ridiculous penguin suit his dad had blown a ton of cash to rent and he feels like some rich jackass in it. He wonders what people generally think of in the hours before they permanently sign away their rights to freedom. Probably something similar to what’s going through his head right now. That he thinks maybe death would be less painful than getting up in front of his family and getting hitched to some chick he’s met twice.

Drinking isn’t nearly as much fun as it used to be though. He can’t even enjoy a decent buzz without his thoughts drifting to that pesky little redhead that he can’t seem to shake. The one that had fucked his brains out and walked out without so much as a goddamn goodbye. He deserves it, probably, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Eleven-oh-three. An hour and fifty-seven minutes to go.

He’s sitting at the dining table. He hasn’t been able to go anywhere that couch since that fucking nightmare of a day. He hasn’t been able to so much as _look_ at it without remembering the broken look in Gallagher’s eyes when that bitch had sat down on top of him. And his father’s encouragement in his ear, the barrel of his gun pressing against his neck.

“Motherfucker,” he grumbles as the last drop of alcohol dribbles out of the bottle and into his mouth. He’s not nearly shitfaced enough for today.

There’s a liquor store a couple of blocks away. He has to pass a certain house to get there, sure, but considering it’s a school day, the chances of Gallagher being there are slim to none. And it might not be bad to catch a fleeting glimpse of him before he does this thing (it’s not a marriage, it’s _not_ a fucking marriage and he’s not going to call it one). Maybe he’ll provoke Mickey into letting off some of the steam he’s had stored up for days.

Despite all his bravado, all his insistence that he doesn’t care one way or another, he finds himself warily eyeing the houses on Gallagher’s street when he reaches it, keeping his eyes peeled for that achingly familiar red hair.

He finds himself completely unprepared when he actually does spot him. Gallagher’s locking the door behind himself, looking extremely suspicious and hauling around a big-ass backpack. Mickey’s half-tempted to turn and walk briskly in the opposite direction when Gallagher finishes locking up and begins to walk down the stairs. He’s nearly reached the gate when he looks up and locks eyes with Mickey.

Mickey stops walking. He can’t help it.

There’s a weirdly inscrutable look on Gallagher’s face as he stares him down. Half-defiant, half-pleading, if that’s even possible. And disappointed. There’s definitely disappointment there.

Mickey thinks maybe his tongue’s about to betray him and say something (though he’s not sure what) but something in his expression makes Ian shake his head and break eye contact. And then he’s unlocking the gate and walking out. Walking away. And Mickey doesn’t say a goddamn word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback I've gotten so far. :) I know virtually nothing about the army/enlistment procedures, so please let me know if there are any glaring inaccuracies in there! Next chapter up in a couple of days probably.


	3. Chapter 3

The front door looks the same. The hanging-off-their-hinges windows. Even the backyard. It shouldn’t surprise him, it’s only been three weeks, but it does for some reason. He’d expected to come back to a different house and now it feels like no time has elapsed at all.

He can hear voices inside. Fiona’s definitely. Lip’s. Debbie yelling at someone. They sound like they’re having a good time from where he’s standing.

It feels strange to ring the doorbell of the house he’s spent seventeen years living in. No one answers for a couple of moments, maybe because they can’t hear him over the din, so he rings it again.

“Jesus, hold your fucking horses!” The door swings opens and Fiona’s impatient smile slides off her face almost comically at the sight of him.

“Hi,” he says, voice coming out squeakier than usual. He clears his throat. “How’s it going?”

For a second he’s worried she might slam the door in his face. He supposes he deserves it. But she just shakes her head once and walks back into the house without a word.

Not sure what to do, he adjusts his backpack and tentatively steps into the house. He hears padded footsteps and then Lip slides into view, wearing a surprised grin.

“The prodigal son returns,” he says.

Ian flips him off and walks toward him, depositing his bag on one of the chairs. “Shut up."

“So what happened? You barely lasted a month in there.”

Ian rubs at his forehead sheepishly. “Surprise drug tests. When I failed two in a row, they did a more… extensive check into my background.”

Lip winces. “Shit. We in trouble?”

“Nah, the guy in charge is cool. Told me to clean up my act and come back in a year.”

“Can’t say we didn’t try.” He slaps him on the back. “Come on. Week-old spaghetti awaits.”

Ian laughs, the sound coming out more nervous than he’d intended. “As, uh… tempting as that sounds,” he says, not sure why we feels so uncomfortable in his own home all of a sudden. Lip turns back, curious. “Anything important happen while I was gone?”

Lip lifts an eyebrow. “How long have you got?”

“CliffNotes version?” Ian asks. “Or do I not want to know?”

Lip shakes his head. “Man, you should’ve seen Fiona when she found your note. I haven’t seen her that mad since Monica.” He gives him a disapproving look. “Not cool, man.”

“You’re the one that told me to do it!”

“Yeah, but what the hell are you doing taking advice from me? Anyway, it didn’t help that Jimmy fucked off to Michigan like, two days after you left. Don’t mention his name in front of her by the way, she gets all teary-eyed and shit. But yeah, she was a mess for a while there.”

“Debbie and Carl?”

“Debbie was confused. Carl… I’m not sure Carl really knew what was going on.”

“Surprise surprise.” Ian exhales. “How’s Karen doing? Is she…”

“Nah. She’s at home now.”

Something in Lip’s tone doesn’t sit right with Ian. “Conscious?”

Lip shakes his head slowly.

“Shit. No change?”

“The doctors keep telling us not to give up hope. But…” He shrugs.

“Wow.” Ian sticks his hands in his pockets. He’s not sure how to ask the next question, though every second he doesn’t makes him feel less and less at ease. “And…”

“Got married,” Lip says lightly. “And left town.”

And suddenly it feels like someone’s just punched him hard in the stomach. “How do you – ”

“Mandy told me. We’re talking again, kind of.” He makes a face. “But I mean, the whole town knows.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“No idea.”

Ian’s just opened his mouth to respond when someone charges up to him so fast he almost doesn’t see them and throws their arms around his waist. He’s nearly knocked backward by the sheer force of the embrace and he struggles to right himself.

“Hi Debs,” Ian says, smiling despite how he’s feeling. He rubs her back. “Missed you.”

Debbie pulls back and hits him hard in the chest. “Why didn’t you tell us you were going?”

Ian throws Lip a look over her shoulder. “Didn’t know how to say goodbye, I guess.”

She whacks him again, less hard this time. “Well, don’t do it again, okay? Ever.”

“Promise,” he says laughingly, though his expression turns serious when Fiona appears in the doorway. She barely looks at him, gesturing for Debbie to start moving.

“Time for bed, Debs.”

“I mean, it,” Debs says warningly. She gives Ian one last hug before bounding away from them and toward the staircase. Fiona turns to leave.

“Fiona,” Ian says desperately, but she walks back into the kitchen without so much as a pause.

 

Ian skips dinner that night. He’s not hungry anyway, and Fiona’s death glares would probably do a pretty good of killing his appetite if he was. It’s not that he blames her for being mad at him (hell, he’d be pretty mad if he was in her shoes), he just really wishes she could look past it. Because being back here, in this town, knowing Mickey Milkovich doesn’t live a couple of blocks away anymore, it’s much harder than he’d imagined.

Fiona’s gone by the time he gets downstairs for breakfast. Debbie’s at the stove, frying an egg and chattering away to herself. She looks up when she sees him come down the stairs and immediately falls silent.

“Rehearsing,” she says, cheeks reddening. “For a school play.”

“Cool.” He grabs a box of Cheerios and sits down at the table. “I didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

“I’m not.” She transfers the yolky egg from the pan to a plate. “But Lip says I should start beefing up my app now if I want to get into college.”

Ian snorts. “Lip’s one to talk.”

“Stop talking about me, bitches.” Lip smacks Ian across the back of the head. Ian looks up, surprised. He hadn’t even heard him come down. “So what are the great abandoner’s plans for today?”

“Fuck off.” Ian kicks at a table leg petulantly. “Dunno. I almost wish it was a weekday so I could go to school.” He's not sure how true that is though, for a lot of reasons.

“And they’d be so happy to have you back after that month-long absence, right?”

“It’s not like I got a great welcome here either,” Ian says, feeling a note of bitterness seep into his voice.

“Don’t be a dick,” Lip says, not sounding the slightest bit annoyed. “Just give her some time. Do something nice. I thought all this self-pity was going to stop when you came back.”

Ian shrugs moodily, making a face at his cereal. “What are you doing today? Maybe the three of us could go catch a movie or something.”

“Can’t, sorry.” Debs holds up her script apologetically. “Have to be ready by Monday.”

“I promised Kev I’d help out with the truck today,” Lip says, shrugging. “But hey, you’re welcome to come with.”

“I’ll pass,” Ian says. Kevin will probably be pretty understanding about him leaving _and_ him coming back, but he doesn’t have the energy to go out and actually _do_ stuff or to keep up with Kevin and Lip’s banter. He grabs his bowl, dumps it in the sink and walks toward the door. “See you.”

He thinks about stopping by the Kash & Grab to see whether they’ve found a replacement but realizes Linda won’t exactly be happy to see him if she’s there. He thinks about stopping by the Milkovich house to talk to Mandy but he’s not sure whether Terry’ll be home and he doesn’t want to risk it.

In the end he finds himself waiting outside Sheila Jackson’s front door, hugging himself against the chilly air and repeatedly asking himself what he’s doing here. He can’t explain it, considering how little he’s had to do with the Jacksons over the years (at least compared to the rest of his family), but he knows she’s a nice lady who won’t turn him away. And, as depressed as it makes him feel, he really doesn’t have too many other places he can go.

Sheila’s thrilled to see him. She doesn’t even make him leave his shoes outside, just ushers him in and starts bombarding him with questions about what he’d like to eat or drink.

“Beer? We have lots of beer,” she says hopefully. “I’ve been keeping them for Karen for when she wakes up.”

“Okay,” Ian says, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Okay, yeah. I’ll have a beer.”

“Right, well, I will… I will just go get one for you.” She nods. “You can go in now if you want.”

“In?”

“To see her? That’s why you came, isn’t it? She loves visitors, it’ll make her so happy.”

And just how is he supposed to say no to that? “Sure,” he says, letting his shoulders slump. “Sure, that’s why I came.”

And so he slowly makes his way over to Karen’s bedroom. He hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone and it now it looks like he’ll be spending the afternoon with a comatose person. _Be careful what you wish for,_ he thinks with a snort.

He’d never gone to visit Karen when she was in the hospital but he’s sure she looks better now than she did then. Her face is clean and cut-free, her hair seems to have been recently brushed and styled. If he didn’t know better he’d say she was just taking a long nap.

There’s a chair (probably recently vacated) beside her bed and he cautiously sinks down on it. Idly wonders how many hours Lip’s spent here since she got back. Wonders how he’d feel if someone he truly cared about might never be able to talk to him, smile at him again, and realizes he’s about to find out.

He drums his fingers against his thigh, looking around at the walls and the furniture instead of the unconscious girl in the middle of the bed. He’s never really been around sick or dying people and he’s not sure how to act. Is he supposed to talk to her? It’s not like she can respond, what would be the point?

“So,” he finally says, voice coming out scratchy. “Hi.”

To no one’s surprise, she doesn’t stir. Ian feels like an idiot.

“Uh, I guess I should apologize for all the mean shit I said about you when you were messing with Lip.” He stops, scared for a second that Sheila might walk in and think he’s crazy. And then he realizes who he’s talking about and nearly laughs out loud. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t mean it. I did. You’re kind of a psycho bitch like, a hundred per cent of the time. But that’s what you’re supposed to do when people are on their deathbeds, right? Apologize for all the times you’ve thought bad thoughts about them?”

There’s a pair of bright pink slippers on the floor beside the bed, unmistakeably Karen’s, at least if the size is anything to go by. The thought makes him sad and he quickly looks away. “Though I guess I’m not really in a position to be judging anybody right now.” He sighs. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do to make Fiona _not_ think I’m a total piece of shit for leaving and I just… I’m too tired to figure out a way to do it. You’re lucky, you know, in a weird kind of way.”

He glances back at the door again, wondering what’s taking Sheila so long. “I’m a little surprised they bought when I told them,” he says after a minute. “Lip and Debbie. I told them I was sent back because I failed a couple of drug tests and the army guys discovered I wasn’t who I said I was.” He almost expects Karen to say something in response but the only sound in the room is her shallow, even breathing and the voice in his head asking what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“I came home because I missed it. I missed Fiona and Debs and Carl. And Lip. And my bed. And, more than any of that…” He shakes his head, not even surprised to find his eyes burning with unshed tears for the umpteenth time. “And now he’s gone and he’s probably never coming back and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. We didn’t…” He blinks, wiping a hand across his face. “Shit. We didn’t even get to say goodbye or anything. Then again, I guess you and Lip didn’t either.”

He looks at her for a moment, really looks. Karen Jackson, the only girl Lip’s ever truly cared about, the only one he’d do anything for. The girl who’s singlehandedly tried to ruin his life, the one that keeps popping up and disappearing like some unsquashable virus, leaving a path of destruction in her wake every single time. “I never got it,” he says. “Why he liked you. All you ever did was make him feel like crap.”

He lets out a short laugh. “But I get it now. How messed up is that? Love works in weird, fucked-up ways from what I’ve seen. It’s kinda weird, right, that the people that make us want to die are sometimes the only things that make us want to continue living. That no matter how toxic or bad for us the relationship is, you miss it when it’s gone.” He rolls his eyes. Shakes his head like a dog trying to clear water out of its ears. “Wow, look at me being all fucking profound. I think the pressure’s finally getting to me.”

He exhales again, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I should probably get going. Figure out my strategy for tonight. I, uh. Hope you feel better soon.”

He finds Sheila sitting on the one of the living room couches, a blank look on her face. When she looks up and catches sight of him, she looks genuinely surprised to see him there. “Ian. Oh, I’m so sorry. I was going to get you your drink and I just…”

“It’s fine,” Ian says quickly. “Thanks anyway, Mrs Jackson. Take care of yourself.”

 

Ian has never been much of a cook (though, in his defense, he’s never had much practice). He knows how to fry an egg (sometimes) and he knows how to not burn toast, but that’s about the extent of his culinary knowledge. So he seriously hopes Fiona understands how much he’s straining himself tonight.

He finds a recipe for pasta online and buys all the ingredients necessary, nearly depleting his Kash & Grab savings entirely. Pasta, ready-made creamy cheese cause. Vegetables… but not too many. They are Gallaghers after all.

He’s nearly done by the time his family start pouring in. Debbie and Carl walk in first and though Carl races up to their room almost immediately, Debbie stays to help, passing things when necessary and telling him all about her day.

“Have you ever been in a play?” she asks conversationally, leaning over to sniff the bubbling pot. “Is it scary?”

“I think I might’ve been in like, fifth grade.” Ian snorts. “I played a tree. Really challenging. It’s not scary when you’re actually up there though, not really.”

“Do you think I’m gonna get the part?”

Ian ruffles her hair. “Of course I do. But real actors have to get used to being rejected, so even if you don’t, it’s not like that’s the end of it for you. You know what I mean?”

Debbie nods, clearly relieved.

“Good girl.”

They both turn around as they hear the tell-tale sound of a key jangling in the front door. Seconds later, footsteps approach the kitchen and a familiar voice drifts over to where they’re standing.

“Debs, I told you not to use the stove when no one else is home!” Fiona’s voice is only half-reprimanding though. “Smells good tho – ” She stops when she rounds the corner and sees the two of them standing in the kitchen. “Oh.”

“Surprise?” Ian says weakly.

Fiona shrugs out of her blazer, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “You cooked dinner?”

“Yeah, I figured you’d be busy after a full day of work.” He swallows. “Just wanted to help out.”

She nods, unsmiling. “Debs, go wash up. Lip should be here in a few minutes, we can eat then.”

Resisting the urge to smash his head against the countertop, Ian gets out a bowl and spoons the pasta into it. Making sure not to drop any of it on the ground (that’s not going to do him any favors in the Fiona department), he places it carefully on the table and waits for his family to come down.

Lip arrives almost immediately and they’re all seated within minutes. Carl reaches greedily for the bowl but Ian grabs his hand.

“Not yet, buddy. I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I actually wanted to talk to all of you.”

Fiona folds her arms across her chest and sits back. Ian tries not to be deterred by the look on her face.

“I owe you _all_ a big apology,” he says. “I shouldn’t have taken off the way I did. I should’ve given you a chance to say goodbye instead of leaving a note on the fridge. I don’t have an excuse, really, except that…”

Fiona raises a questioning eyebrow.

Ian shoves a hand into his pocket, staring down at the empty plate in front of him. “Except that someone fucked me up pretty bad. And I needed to get away from him and… I wasn’t thinking clearly. But none of that matters,” he adds. “I still shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have taken off when you guys were going through shit of your own. Fiona,” he says, ignoring Lip’s ‘abort, abort now’ signals. “I’m so sorry about you and Jimmy. I wish I’d been there when it happened. But I want you to know that I get it. And I’m here now if you need anything. At all. That goes for all of you.” He takes a deep breath, glances around at his family one last time, and sinks down in his chair. “I guess that’s it.”

There’s dead silence for almost a full minute before…

“Wait,” Carl says, mouth hanging open. “So Ian really is – ”

“Shut up, Carl.” Debbie rolls her eyes. “Ian, you know I love you, don’t you?”

“I’m pretty fond of you too,” Lip puts in. “Some of the time anyway.”

Ian laughs. It’s Fiona’s reaction he’s been the most afraid of though, and he looks at her. Fiona, who can normally read like a book, is looking at him in a way he’s never seen before. He lets his head drop, feeling stupid for having tried at all.

“I’m still really mad at you,” Fiona says. Her lower lip quivers but she gets a hold of herself much faster than Ian would’ve. “But I can’t afford to lose any more people.”

When she holds out her arms for a hug, Ian is out of his seat and in front of her in seconds flat. She hugs him tightly, almost too tightly, and he can feel her body shaking. Her eyes are dry when she pulls back though and she takes the opportunity to punch him hard in the shoulder.

“Okay, people have got to stop doing that,” he says, wincing.

“You’re off the hook,” she says, offering a small smile. “Now serve me some pasta, slave boy.”

“Your wish is my command, milady.” He goes to get the bowl, face breaking into a smile as he does. Fiona’s not mad at him. He’s suddenly out to his entire family and no one’s reacted badly to it. Is it possible that things might actually be looking up for him? It seems unlikely, given all the stuff that’s been thrown his way recently, but it doesn’t hurt to hope.

The doorbell rings midway through the meal and Fiona looks to Ian immediately.

“If you’re still trying to make it up to me…” She looks hopeful.

“Fine, fine.” Grumbling half-heartedly under his breath, he abandons his food and goes to answer the door. He nearly trips over one of Liam’s toys on the way and he smiles fondly, thinking that the house is slowly starting to feel like home again.

And that’s the thought in his head when he swings open the front door to find Mickey Milkovich standing outside, looking bruised and beaten and small.

Ian doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything. It feels like his brain is short-circuiting. He’d been so sure he’d never see Mickey again that he’s certain he’s somehow conjured him up with his mind. This has gotta be some kind of hallucination. Mickey’s gone.

Mickey opens his mouth to say something, wincing like the movement hurts his bloodied face. “Hey Gallagher,” he finally gets out, voice scratchy and strained.

Ian unconsciously licks his lips, waiting for Mickey to disappear in a puff of black smoke. But Mickey’s still standing there after he closes and then re-opens his eyes, still wearing that half-impatient, half-anxious look.

“So you gonna invite me in or we gonna stand here all night fuckin’ staring at each other?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback I've gotten so far! Hope this chapter didn't disappoint. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Mickey’s been standing out on the porch for much longer than he’s comfortable with when someone finally opens the goddamn door. He doesn’t know whether he should be glad it’s Gallagher on the other side or not. On one hand, explaining his situation to any of his siblings probably wouldn’t have gone over so well considering what they must think of him. On the other, the two of them hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gallagher took one look at him and slammed the door in his face.

He doesn’t though. Just stands there with his mouth half-open, eyes darting from side to side like he’s trying to figure something out in his head.

“So you gonna invite me in or we gonna stand here all night fuckin’ staring at each other?”

Gallagher moves aside mechanically and Mickey steps inside without hesitation.

“I, uh. Didn’t expect to see you.” Gallagher’s voice is uncertain. “Here at least. Or ever, really.”

“Yeah, well.” Mickey scratches the side of his head. “Here I am.” Gallagher doesn’t move. “You wanna shut that?” He gestures toward the still-wide-open front door and Gallagher springs into action, shutting it behind him and following Mickey into the living room. He looks like he’s seconds away from wringing his hands.

“I… Lip told me you left. With your… he told me the two of you moved away.”

Mickey shrugs, gingerly poking his tender cheek. “Your point?”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s, uh. Kinda a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Gallagher says. He crosses his arms over his chest as though to emphasize that he’s not going anywhere, at least not without an explanation.

“Her pimp found us. Sorry, her _supervisor._ Jesus. Wanted her to come back and keep working, some shit like that. Got ugly. He beat the shit out of me and grabbed her.”

“Grabbed her?”

“Probably going to off her,” Mickey says dispassionately. “She put up a helluva fight. Guys like that don’t take well to that shit.”

“How’d you get away?”

“Stole her money, got on a bus. Took all fucking night.”

Gallagher nods slowly, hands clasped together. “Does your dad know you’re back?”

Mickey feels his expression slowly change, tries to coax it back into its original state. “No.”

“Why didn’t you just go home?”

“Because the last words he said to me were _you ever come back here and I’ll rip your arms off and use them as kitchen utensils_.” He huffs out a short laugh. “And he meant it. Trust me.”

“Shit.”

“Ian? What the hell’s taking you so long?” A tallish brunette with messy hair and big eyes (Fiona?) walks into the living room. She looks only mildly surprised to see Mickey standing next to him. He’s pretty sure stranger shit’s gone down in this house.

“What’s he doing here?” She looks at Ian expectantly.

Gallagher furrows his eyebrows, obviously still not sure what Mickey wants from him. “He … uh. Well, he can’t go home, his dad’s a psycho.”

“So what, you want him to stay here?”

And now Gallagher really looks lost. “Well…”

“It’s here or the streets,” Mickey says gruffly. “I’ll be a lot easier to find on the streets.”

“Why don’t you leave town?” Fiona narrows her eyes. “You Milkoviches are good at that, right?”

“If I start running, I won’t be able to stop. Ever. He might not think to look here, might think it’s too obvious or whatever.”

“Yeah, but if he doesn’t?” Fiona’s voice is hard. “I got three little kids here. I’m not putting their lives in danger because you’re scared of your old man.”

“Fiona,” Gallagher says. “Can I talk you for a second?”

“Look, I’m just – ”

“Fiona.”

They move to the kitchen to have their private chat. Mickey surges forward immediately, not wanting to miss a word of this conversation. Fiona and Gallagher don’t bother to keep their voices down either.

“Listen, I don’t know why he chose here of all places to hide out but – ”

“Fiona.”

“He can’t stay. I’m sure he has some thug friends he can stay with. Why doesn’t – ”

“Fiona.”

“… he stay with one of them? I mean, we can hardly fit the six of us in here. And I’m Mickey Milkovich isn’t exactly an ideal houseguest, you know who we’re dealing with here.”

“Fiona!”

“What?”

“He’s the guy.”

A pause. “What?”

“The guy I was talking about at the dinner table. _He’s_ that guy.”

An even longer pause. “What, Mickey Milkovich?”

Gallagher must nod because he hears Fiona swear under her breath.

“Ian, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t, really. It’s not… I didn’t plan for it to happen. You know what they say, it’s chemical or whatever.”

“Eavesdropping?” Mickey jumps as Lip strolls casually into the living room, holding a bowl of something white and cheesy-looking.

“No,” Mickey says defensively.

“Sure you weren’t.”

Mickey’s about to come up with a more creative insult when Fiona and Gallagher walk back into the room. Fiona looks puzzled, like she’s still trying to process what she’s just been told.

“You can stay,” she says after a moment. “Until you find somewhere else to go.”

Mickey nods.

“But,” she continues. “There are rules. This isn’t the Milkovich household. We don’t threaten people here. No fighting. If you want to live here, you gotta act like one of us. Got it?” She nods before Mickey has a chance to react. “Good. Now let’s discuss sleeping arrangements.”

“I’m good with the couch,” Mickey says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No,” Gallagher says, sounding surprisingly assertive. “No, you can’t. If your dad walks in you should at least have a head start.”

“Just wait a second,” Fiona says, looking outraged, but Lip interrupts her.

“He can take my bed,” Lip offers with a shrug.

Mickey turns to face him, lifting a surprised eyebrow. “Really?”

“Sure,” Lip says amiably. “I like to stay up and read. At least this way I won’t be keeping anyone up.”

“Okay,” Gallagher says, nodding. “Okay, great. That’s settled then.”

Fiona raises both hands in front of her, looking defeated. “I gotta get the kids to bed. Let me know how this pans out.” She walks away, shaking her head as she goes.

“I should go too,” Gallagher says. “Tell Debs and Carl what’s going on.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey says, reaching for him without meaning to.

Gallagher doesn’t look at him. “Don’t.” He follows Fiona to the kitchen, leaving Mickey and Lip standing in the living room.

“Uh,” Mickey says awkwardly. “Thanks for the bed, I guess.”

“Not a problem,” Lip says.

Mickey’s about to grab his one bag and leave the messy room when Lip grabs his shoulder. Suppressing his initial instinct (to break Lip’s arm and then punch him between the eyes), Mickey slowly turns around.

“Let’s just get one thing straight before you move in though, yeah?” His tone is still friendly, expression betraying nothing. “You hit my brother again – no, listen to me. You hit my brother again and I’ll march down to the Milkovich house and tell your dad exactly where you are and what he should do with you. We clear?”

Mickey can feel his mouth hanging open and knows he must look ten shades of stupid but he finds himself unable to do anything about it.

“I said, we clear?”

Stunned, Mickey nods.

Looking satisfied, Lip pats him on the back and walks back to the kitchen.

 

Fiona asks Carl to show Mickey upstairs and Carl reluctantly obliges, leading him to the cramped room and flopping down on his bed without a word. Mickey thinks of the beating this kid would get if the situation was different and he could afford to give people beatings. But it’s not and he can’t, so all he does is swallow the annoyance and climb into the nearest bed without even bothering to discard his jacket.

Gallagher walks in minutes later. Mickey can barely make out his expression in the shadowy room, just the shape of his body and the tentative way he approaches him. He stares for a minute, probably trying to see if Mickey’s awake.

“What?” Mickey snaps, unable to stop himself.

Gallagher recoils immediately. “You’re in my bed.”

Fucking great. Mickey pushes himself up with his elbows.

“You can stay put if you want. I’ll take Lip’s.”

“Could’ve told me that before I got up,” Mickey says annoyedly, stumbling over to Lip’s bed. He accidentally kicks Carl on the way up and doesn’t feel a shred of remorse. When he turns back around, he sees Gallagher standing in the same position. He can easily picture the blank look on his face.

“Sorry,” Gallagher says quietly, pulling off his jacket and slipping under the covers. He sounds detached and far away.

Mickey huffs and receives no reply in response, just the sound of Gallagher shifting in his bed. Ignoring him. Or not wanting to engage him in conversation.

It’s never been like this. Gallagher always has something to say. He’s constantly talking to Mickey about his family and school and all the shit that’s going on in his life and Mickey’s always pretending not to like it. But now it seems like he’s switched that part of himself off and it makes Mickey want to scream.

“So how long’s this gonna go on, huh?” Mickey demands. He’s sure this is a bad idea but when has that ever stopped him before?

“How long’s what gonna go on?”

“You giving me the fuckin’ silent treatment, that’s what.”

Ian is silent for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “You’d know all about it, why don’t you tell me?” And then he makes a big display of rolling over, effectively ending the conversation.

Mickey doesn’t get much sleep that night.

 

He awakes to someone thumping hard on the side of the door. Bleary-eyed and messy-haired, he automatically reaches under his pillow for his trusty knife, wondering which of his father’s seedy friends he’ll have to threaten next.

But this isn’t home. This poster-adorned ceiling isn’t his. These surprisingly soft sheets aren’t his. This bunk bed sure as fuck isn’t his. And then he remembers where he is and why he’d come here and he lies back down with a groan.

“Hey!” A female voice calls. Fiona. “Mickey. Breakfast in ten.”

And then he hears her pad away. He’s all prepared to roll over and go back to sleep when his stomach rumbles noisily and he realizes how long it’s been since his last meal. He reluctantly yanks the sheets off himself and climbs down from the bed. The room is empty and though his eyes automatically fall on Ian’s unmade bed and the pile of clothes lying on it, he forces himself to look away.

The entire Gallagher clan is huddled around the table when he gets down and they suspiciously break apart once they hear him approach. Rolling his eyes, he walks over to the fridge and pulls it open without asking anyone. He’s used to people being assholes in front of him. What surprises him is that they might actually care if his feelings got hurt.

“Good morning,” Fiona says pointedly.

Mickey grunts in response.

“Aren’t you a right ray of sunshine today,” Lip says cheerily. “Right, well. I gotta get to school. Ian, you coming?”

Gallagher shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Not today.”

“Ian, you’ve gotta go back sometime,” Fiona says. She looks like she wants to say more but Lip shakes his head behind Ian and she falls silent. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Sure.” Mickey knows Gallagher doesn’t mean it though and so does Fiona, probably.

“Bye,” Debbie says brightly on her way out and it takes Mickey a second to realize she’s talking to him. He’s too surprised to say anything in response but she doesn’t seem to take it personally.

“Shit,” Fiona says, shaking her head as she looks down at her clunky plastic watch. “I’m late.” She looks at Gallagher. “Ian, make sure Carl leaves on time, okay? Don’t destroy the house,” she says, flicking a meaningful look Mickey’s way. “And see you later tonight.”

“Bye Fiona,” Ian calls. He stuffs the last bite of toast into his mouth and heads upstairs without saying anything to Mickey.

Being blatantly ignored has never sat right with Mickey, so he abandons his breakfast plan and charges up the stairs after Gallagher. He’s not in his bedroom, so the only place left must be…

He sees Gallagher look up in the mirror of the bathroom, obviously surprised about Mickey just barging in. He turns the faucet off and turns around, looking at him expectantly.

“I need a toothbrush,” Mickey says aggressively.

“I’ll go out and buy you one later,” Gallagher says, promptly turning back around.

“I need one now,” Mickey insists.

Ian shrugs, one of those infuriating ‘well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it?’ shrugs.

“Dude, it’ll take ten minutes. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“Says who? Look, I don’t know why you’re trying to antagonize me. I’m the one that should be mad at you after the crap you pulled before I left.”

“I’m not antagonizing you,” Mickey says stubbornly. “I just want to brush my fucking teeth.”

Ian rolls his eyes, getting ready to turn back around when they both hear a click from behind them and footsteps scampering away. Mickey reaches for the door handle automatically, trying to push the bathroom door open. It doesn't budge.

“The fuck…”

“Carl,” Ian says in a resigned tone.

“What the hell did he do that for?”

“Doesn’t want to go to school probably.” Gallagher sinks down on the edge of the bathtub, running a hand through his hair. The movement is so uncomfortably familiar that Mickey has to look away.

“How long are we gonna be stuck in here?” Mickey demands.

“As long as he wants us to be. Or until someone else gets home.”

“A long fucking time then.” Mickey stares at the door. “We could break it down.”

“Not worth the hassle. Just suffer through it and get Carl back somehow.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Trust me, I will.”

Gallagher stares at the ground, fingers tapping against his leg.

“So how come you didn’t want to go?” Mickey asks, leaning against the bathroom door. He flinches as one of his unhealed cuts rubs against the wood.

“Go where?”

“School, where the fuck else?”

“Look, just because we’re trapped in this bathroom together doesn’t mean we have to speak to each other.”

“We’re also living together and sleeping in the same bedroom. How long do you think you can keep that up exactly?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Okay, look, I’m not asking you to remove that stick from your ass and like, deign to start speaking to me again. But I have nothing to do and neither do you, so you might as well answer the goddamn question.”

“Because it’s hard, okay?” Gallagher finally blurts out. “I mean, I had a tough time keeping up when I was like, attending regularly. And now that I’ve been gone for so long…”

“You’re scared you won’t be able to catch up,” Mickey finishes.

“You can laugh now if you want.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Gallagher shrugs moodily, toeing at the ground with a combat boot. “Your turn.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just told you something personal. Tit for tat.”

“I don’t have anything personal to tell you,” Mickey says immediately.

Gallagher doesn’t even attempt to conceal his eye-roll.

“I’m an open book, what can I say?”

Gallagher’s not laughing though. He’s not even giving him that fondly exasperated look he’s gotten so good at. 

“Why am I not surprised,” he says, shaking his head. “No, you never tell me anything. I’m always the one that has to share. I’m the one that gets left behind. You’re the one that makes all the fucking decisions, right?”

“Whoa,” Mickey says, holding out his hands. “Disproportionate reaction much? And, uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the one that left town first?”

“Only after I heard you were getting married and you decided my face would make a good punching bag.”

Mickey has the grace to look slightly sheepish about that.

“I keep trying and it keeps leading me to the same place,” Gallagher says, clearly frustrated. “You’re never going to change. And I’m always going to be the one that has to make sacrifices. So maybe my original plan was a good one. We’re just two people that happen to live in the same house. You can stay out of my way and I’ll definitely stay out of yours.”

Mickey just stares at him for a long moment, mouth open and eyes narrowed in confusion. When exactly did this conversation get away from him? He wants to say something, he really does, but suddenly there’s a sound from the other side of the door and footsteps running away. Gallagher leaps up as though he’s been electrocuted, and when he tries the door this time, it opens easily.

“I’ll buy you a toothbrush this evening,” Gallagher says on his way out. “Toast and eggs for breakfast when you want some.”

 

Mickey doesn’t go after him, doesn’t try to provoke him again. Gallagher’s never been this sensitive and he’s certainly never been this quick to fly off the handle, so obviously something must be going on with him. Maybe it’s best if he just gives him space for a little while.

But as the day slowly goes by and he continues to have nothing to do, he begins to wish Gallagher could just move the fuck on so they can start hanging out again. He _hates_ being cooped-up like this, hates not being able to go out and stir shit up. But all thoughts of saying ‘fuck it’ and leaving are abandoned when he thinks of his father’s inevitable reaction.

Gallagher’d eventually forced Carl out the door (after a stern lecture), so he can’t even harass the kid. He’s seriously contemplating suicide by pillow-smothering when Lip gets home.

“Oy,” he calls. “Boy Milkovich. Get in here.”

Mickey reluctantly climbs out of bed and pads out of the room toward Lip’s voice. Gallagher’s nowhere to be found, hasn’t been all day, so Mickey assumes he’s found a good hiding place. Not that he cares. At all.

Lip grins widely at him from where he’s standing in the kitchen. “Got you something.”

“Oh yeah?”

And then Lip’s reaching into his bag (still wearing that shit-eating smile) and produces…

“Is this is a joke?” Mickey says flatly, eyeing it suspiciously.

Lip laughs. Really laughs. One of those unreserved laughs Mickey hasn’t heard in a while. “No. I figured you wouldn’t have much to do here, so I thought you might find some use for this.”

Mickey gingerly accepts it, staring at it like it might bite.

“It’s a book, Mickey. Not a time-bomb,” Lip says, not making an effort to hide his amusement.

Mickey looks at the cover with distaste, runs his fingers over the spine. “ _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_? What, is this is some kind of kid fairy-tale shit?”

“Not exactly. Give it a shot, I think it’ll be right up your alley.” And then he strides away, leaving Mickey feeling inexplicably like he’s just been made a fool of. Fucking Lip Gallagher.

Tossing the book to the side, he grabs the remote and flips through channels like a zombie until the rest of the Gallagher family gets back home.

Dinner’s a noisy affair, though Mickey’s beginning to realize that that’s not unusual. Gallagher talks to everyone, listens attentively, and Mickey just sits in the corner picking at his food. There’s such an easy camaraderie here that it would be hard not to feel kind of out of place. And Mickey’s never been very good at people.

No one pushes him to make conversation either, which is a relief. Gallagher looks his way a couple of times, and there’s something like resignation in his expression when he does, but Mickey pretends not to see it. And Gallagher just goes back to whichever conversation he’d been in like Mickey’s not worth the time or energy.

It’s so _unfair._ The whole thing. The fact that Gallagher’s so at ease with his family. Mickey’s never seen this side of him or maybe he’s just never paid that much attention, but now that he’s got a front row seat it’s sort of bizarrely mesmerizing. He laughs, he teases. He smiles. Mickey wants to claw his eyes out with a fork.

He stays out in the living room for as long as he possibly can, lounging around the couch and listening to the rest of the Gallaghers bid each other goodnight and retire to their respective bedrooms.

“You’re in my bed,” Lip says good-naturedly when he finally gets to the living room. He’s lugging around another heavy book and a ratty blanket. Mickey reluctantly pushes himself to his feet and moves toward his new bedroom, not bothering to say goodnight.

It’s almost completely dark by the time he gets in and he struggles to get up to the top bunk.

He’s been staring up at the nearly black ceiling for what feels like an hour when he turns slightly to get a look at Gallagher. He’s lying on his side, facing away from Mickey, but something about the way he’s breathing suggests that he may not be asleep. And out of nowhere and completely without warning, Mickey feels a pang in his chest so sharp that it’s almost a physical pain. The way Gallagher’s holding himself, almost like he’s trying to shield himself from something. Mickey, probably.

He feels the words rise up and leave his mouth before he’s even sure what he’s doing.

“I got beat up because I tried to stop that asshole from taking her.” Gallagher doesn’t move and it just spurs Mickey on. “He was ready to leave me alone. I don’t know why I fucking did it, not like I gave a shit about what happened to her. Shouldn’t have done anything. I mean, my face might still be intact if I’d just kept my mouth shut.”

The thought that Gallagher may not be listening somehow makes him feel less stupid. “But I felt… I don’t know, guilty after she was gone. Kept thinking about what he might’ve been doing to her.” He flops back down to lie on his back. “So there’s your goddamn secret. There’s something I didn’t think I’d tell anyone.”

Thanking his lucky stars that Carl wears ear plugs to bed, he wraps the blanket around himself like a safety net. “And I know it’s not really my business or whatever but I think you should go back to school. I know it’s hard and I know it’s a fuckin’ drag but…” He sighs. “Dunno. Think you might regret it when you don’t have a chance anymore.” He almost says, _I do._ It’s on the tip of his tongue but that’s too much, too honest. Too soon.

“You’re probably not even listening,” he says with a short laugh. “I don’t know what the hell I'm even doing. Guess I needed to get that off my chest.” When he leans over again, Gallagher’s in the same position. “Whatever. Goodnight, I guess.”

And then he rolls over and somehow falls asleep.

 

Mickey barely remembers his night-time ramblings the next morning. It almost feels like a dream, him being so startlingly candid like that, and he can’t help but wonder what the hell he’d been thinking. When has honesty ever served him well? Fucking never, that’s when. If he’d lied about who he was from the start, he’d still be living in his own damn house. He wouldn’t be on the run from his own flesh and blood.

He’s in the middle of a thought when Gallagher walks into the room and grabs his satchel off the ground. Mickey thinks idly that he should probably start referring to him as Ian, at least in his head, considering he’s the reason he currently has a roof over his head.

“You’re going to school?” Carl, who’s probably just woken up, asks sleepily from the bed below Mickey’s.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t try and skip again, right?” Gallagher ( _Ian_ ) says, leaning down to ruffle Carl’s hair.

And on his way out the door, he turns his head and looks at Mickey. And it’s a fleeting look but it still hits Mickey like a ton of bricks. And he’s not sure whether to feel like a fucking idiot or like someone who did something right for the first time in god knows how long.

The Gallaghers all take off within minutes of each other. Fiona takes Liam to work this time, so Mickey doesn’t have to worry about being put on baby duty. He kind of half-wishes he had been though, just so he’d have something to do. Sitting on the couch and staring at a blank television screen is only fun for so long.

And that goddamn book, that Cuckoo shit that Lip had brought back. It’s just staring at him from where he’d unceremoniously flung it the night before. Like it’s _demanding_ to be read. The fucking cheek of it.

And because no one’s around and he really, really has nothing else to do, Mickey tentatively reaches for it.

To look at the back cover, he tells himself firmly.

Maybe just the first page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)
> 
> (Also, still reeling from 3.11. SIGH.)


	5. Chapter 5

Going back to school is every bit as hard as Ian had worried it would be. He’s hopelessly behind and keeps catching dirty looks and snide comments from his teachers for not understanding concepts or missing important deadlines. It’s sort of exhausting.

Mandy seems happy to see him, at least. And she doesn’t react too badly when she hears that Mickey’s been back in Chicago, even though he clearly hasn’t contacted her.

“Why is he staying with you though?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “Why doesn’t he just hide out in a motel somewhere?”

Ian shrugs. “Free food, I guess? I don’t know.”

He briefly considers telling her the actual reason. Mandy’s always been pretty open-minded and he knows she’s a believer in true love and all that crap. But how is he supposed to tell his best friend he’s been lying to her face for almost a year?

There’ll be a moment one day, he’s sure. He’ll know it’s the right time to finally do it. Now’s not the right moment. Not in the middle of a crowded school hallway.

“Why is he back here at all? He’s got buddies all over the country.”

“Maybe he thinks they’d sell him out to your dad. Beats me. He probably just missed home.”

“Mickey?” She laughs. “That’ll be the day.”

“Just keep this to yourself, okay? I mean, I know you’re not gonna tell Terry, but like… even accidentally.”

She looks offended. “I’m not an idiot, of course I won’t. If dad finds out Mickey’s not married anymore, he’ll kill him without blinking.”

They finally reach Ian’s class and Ian’s all prepared to walk inside when he sees Mandy bite her lower lip thoughtfully.

“I should probably go see him, right? Mickey.”

Ian feels his lips quirk into a tiny smile. Mandy’s so transparent sometimes. He wants to tell her she doesn’t need a reason to go to his house (they’re best friends, remember?) but he knows it wouldn’t make a shred of difference. “If you want.”

With a knowing smile, he raises a hand in farewell and prepares for another hour of abuse.

 

All in all he’s pretty relieved when he gets back home. It’s kind of morbidly amusing to watch Mickey jump out of his skin and scramble to hide something under a cushion when he walks into the living room. Same old shady Mickey.

“Hey,” Mickey says, crossing his arms over his chest. Probably in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

“Hey.” Ian raises a hand tiredly.

“So how bad did that suck?”

He scrubs a hand across his face. “On a scale of one to ten… I’d say about fifteen.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” The strangeness of this surprisingly _normal_ and civil exchange is just starting to sink in when Lip saunters into the living room with a bag on his back.

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

Lip stops, looking almost like he’d forgotten where he was. And suddenly Ian knows where he’s headed.

“Just to see Karen,” Lip says lightly. “Thought I’d bring some CDs we used to listen to together. You never know what’ll work, right?”

Ian doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway.” Lip shrugs. “I should get going.”

“Hey,” Ian says, seeing Mickey turn his head to face him out of the corner of his eye. He’s well aware of how strange Lip will find this.

Lip turns around, looking at him expectantly.

“Mind if I come with you?”

 

“So why’d you decide to tag along?” Lip asks on their way back from the Jackson house. Karen had shown no signs of life and Sheila’d seemed even more manic than usual, but Ian’s kind of weirdly glad he went. Karen almost feels like a friend now ( _comatose Karen_ , he clarifies immediately) and he thinks maybe Lip needed the emotional support.

Ian shrugs. “Didn’t have anything else to do.”

Lip elbows him in the side. “Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy being trapped in a house with Mickey Milkovich.”

“I’m not sure ‘enjoy’ is the word I’d use.”

“How’s that going by the way? He giving you any shit?”

Ian shakes his head quickly. “Not at all. In fact he’s been surprisingly… un-Mickey the last couple of days. Probably scared we’ll kick him out.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Me, I guess.” He kicks a stone on the pavement and sends it flying. “I don’t think I’m ready to like, forget the last few months and move on yet. You know what I mean?”

“I get it, man. Trust me. Mandy’s been calling again and I sort of miss her but…”

“She ran your ex-girlfriend over with her car?”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

They walk along in companionable silence for a little while. Ian shoves his hands into his pockets, wishing he’d brought a jacket.

“So I don’t know if I’ve already told you this,” says Lip in a faux-casual tone that suggests he knows full well he hasn’t. “But a dude from MIT came down to the house a couple months ago. To conduct like, an informal interview or whatever.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think it went too well because I told him some stuff he’s probably not used to hearing. But it turns out it must’ve gone over pretty well because I got in.”

“… oh.”

“Yeah, pretty weird, huh?”

 _I’ll say._ “You gonna go?”

Lip sighs, long and loud. “If you’d asked me two months ago I’d have said fuck no. But it seems like kinda a wasted opportunity, you know? And I mean, they do have resources I’d never be able to get my hands on otherwise.”

Ian nods slowly, not sure what Lip expects him to say.

“It’s just a thought,” Lip says quickly. “I wouldn’t want to leave you guys behind obviously. And you know places like MIT are full of pseudo-intellectual pricks that think the way we live is… what’s the word they use? Fucking _quaint_. But…”

“Mm?”

“I don’t know. Might not be that bad. I’ll have to decide one way or another pretty soon though.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, stop looking so serious, okay?” Lip pushes his shoulder. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“I know.”

 

Mandy and Mickey are sitting on the couch when they get back home. Mandy’s watching some reality show about what looks like infants in sparkly dresses crying to a camera. Mickey’s dozing beside her, looking more peaceful than Ian’s ever seen him.

He jerks awake as soon as Ian and Lip walk in though, looking around at his surroundings like he’s never seen them before and reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.

“Hey,” Mandy says, looking at Lip. Ian tries not to take it personally.

“Hey,” Lip says with a nod and a barely-there smile.

“I better run, I have to get dinner ready before dad gets home.” She lingers for a long second, obviously waiting for Lip to tell her to stay. He doesn’t, so she hugs Mickey goodbye and flashes Ian a smile before she leaves. Lip, clearly unaffected, says something about going to take a shower and promptly leaves the two of them alone.

Mickey scratches the side of his head, still blinking the drowsiness from his eyes.

“She awake yet?”

It takes Ian a second to understand who he’s talking about. “No,” he says distractedly. “No, no change.”

Mickey makes an indecipherable noise. Ian doesn’t ask him to elaborate.

“You, uh…” He probably wants to say ‘okay’ but Mickey obviously doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary to ask someone how they’re doing. “Someone pee in your coffee or something?”

Ian shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Stuff.”

He’s thinking about Mickey though, strangely enough. About all the ways Mickey’d fucked with his head before he left, all the ways he’d made him feel like any place in the world had to be better than here. And then he thinks about Lip and the way he’d wholeheartedly supported his decision to get out of a town he was slowly beginning to despise.

It’s the right thing to do. It’s the brotherly thing to do. But it’s also very fucking hard.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, heading toward the staircase.

He pushes open the bathroom door (no one in the Gallagher house ever bothers to lock it behind them) when he gets upstairs and hears the shower going at full blast.

“Hey,” he calls, raising his voice to be heard over the sound.

Lip pulls the shower curtain back and sticks his head out, relaxing visibly when he sees who it is. “Knock much?”

“My bad.”

Lip makes a face at him and goes back to his shower, disappearing from view. “So what brings you up here?” he calls.

“What, like I need an excuse to walk in on you naked?”

“Okay, a) that’s gross and b) I know you too well. Mickey bugging you?”

Ian snorts. He wishes. “Nah, nothing like that. I actually had something I wanted to say to you.”

“That sounds promisingly ominous. Shoot.”

“Just, uh. Wanted to tell you that I think you should go.”

“What?”

He hears the shower being turned off, can imagine Lip furrowing his eyebrows.

“I think you should go to MIT. If that’s what you want. I know you’re worried about Fiona and Debs and Carl and… me, but one of these days you’re gonna have to put you first, you know?”

Silence.

“I wouldn’t hold it against you. And neither would anyone else. I think you owe it to your brain to get out there and do something with your life.” He sighs. “Wanted to tell you that, I guess. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming,” he adds, trying vainly to bring some levity to the now weirdly sentimental atmosphere.

Lip doesn’t say anything about their conversation at dinner or later when he comes to say goodnight to Ian. There’s a new contemplative look in his eyes though and Ian knows he heard him.

He’s sitting on his bed later that evening when it hits him. That he’s just encouraged Lip to leave when he knows very well that he’ll probably never come back. Lip, who’s been one of the only constants in his life for as long as he can remember. Lip, who’s bailed him out of more scrapes than he can count on both hands. His best friend, no competition.

Ian’s never seriously considered that Lip might someday aim higher than the south side. He’d always thought Lip liked his life here too much. But maybe it’s the best thing for him. No matter how much it sucks for Ian.

When Mickey walks in, Ian doesn’t even look up. He can tell who it is from the heavy footsteps and the way the door’d been practically flung open. He waits patiently for Mickey to get a good look at him and either leave or go to bed. He knows how Mickey feels about things like emotions and Ian is very obviously a mess of them at this moment.

Mickey doesn’t move. And when Ian raises his head to find out why, his mouth is partially open like he’s planning to say something. He’s been doing that a lot lately, preparing to speak and backing out at the last second. Probably for fear of revealing too much.

But this time, Ian thinks he closes his mouth for a different reason. Because he knows there’s really not much he can say.

And then, just when Ian expects him to turn around and act like this moment never happened, Mickey lets out the breath he seems to have been holding and slowly lowers himself to sit beside Ian on the bed. And he doesn’t try and touch him or talk to him, just sits there like maybe, just _maybe,_ Ian’s someone he genuinely cares about and he wants to be there for him.

And Ian’s sure Mickey’ll play dumb tomorrow and he’s sure he’s reading too much into the situation as it is. That’s what he always does with Mickey. Projects his feelings onto him and ends up getting screwed over.

But even if it’s true this time, for some inexplicable reason, it makes him feel just a little bit better. And that’s a feeling he’d like to hold onto.


	6. Chapter 6

_Drip-drip._

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise.

_Drip-drip._

He plays the same game he plays every night, trying to pretend he’s somewhere else. He’s in a fucking field this time, with lurid pink and yellow flowers. Bright sunshine. Cool breeze. Gallagher’s here somewhere. He just has to find him. Gallagher won’t be mad when he finds him. Everything will be forgiven. They can go back to their old selves. Gallagher can go back to being the only light spot in Mickey’s very dark life.

_Drip-drip._

“For the love of…” Mickey throws the thin blanket off himself, pushing himself out of bed reluctantly. That damn kitchen faucet, it’s been leaking since they moved in. He’s just about prepared to yank it out of its place with his bare hands.

He doesn’t look back at the sleeping girl in bed as he trudges out. The damp-smelling apartment is pitch dark and he reaches out blindly, trying not to bump into anything. It’s quiet too, tucked away.

The dripping noise is getting closer. He’s fumbling for the light switch.

There’s a noise like a gunshot and the door slams open. Mickey nearly has a fucking coronary, wishing he had something on him. There are a couple of guns in the closet, he thinks. But they’re far away. And the threat is right here.

A massive shadow steps into the house, much taller than Mickey. Wider too. The light gets flicked on.

“Where is she?” the man demands. Mickey looks him up and down quickly. No gun, at least not one he can see. He’s sure he has back-up on the way though.

“Where is who?” Mickey asks, because feigning dumb is his best bet right now.

“This doesn’t have to end badly for you,” the man says, approaching him slowly. He’s got one of those naturally menacing voices too, Mickey thinks. If he just gets to his gun in time…

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re fuckin’ talking about.”

The man looks heavenward, hands clenching into fists. “Move.”

He’s striding into the bedroom where she’s sleeping. Mickey follows him inside, making sure to keep his footsteps light. He’s good at being discreet. He’s had a lifetime of practice.

The man shakes her, hard. Once, twice. “Wake up, you little bitch.”

She opens one eye and immediately begins to back away, plainly terrified.

“Don’t try and hide,” he hisses. “What, you didn’t think I’d find you here?”

That’s when Mickey lunges for the gun. His hand is on the closet, he’s inches away, when the man turns around and sees what he’s trying to do.

When his fist makes impact with Mickey’s face, it knocks Mickey right off his feet. And after the first punch, he doesn’t feel any of the others.

Mickey wakes up sweating, hands clenched tightly in the sheets. He’s no stranger to nightmares but he hasn’t dreamt of this specific night in days, something he’s been very grateful for.

“You okay?”

He looks around for the face behind the voice, startled. Ian is half-sitting up in bed, face mostly shrouded in darkness.

Mickey shrugs, though Ian probably can’t see it. “Fine.”

“Bad dream?”

“I said I’m fine,” he says sharply without really meaning to.

“Okay,” Ian says after a long minute. “If you’re sure.”

And though Mickey instantly regret snapping at him, especially when it feels like they’re on the brink of _something_ , he can’t apologize without losing tons of face. So he lays back down and tries to go back to sleep.

Ian doesn’t ask him about it the next morning but he does turn to look at him when he’s saying goodbye to his family. And it’s not much but Mickey’ll take anything at this point, no matter how small or pathetic.

He picks up Lip’s book once the house is empty, turning to the last read page. Much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, it’s actually a pretty compelling story. And RP McMurphy reminds him of a certain _someone_ , what with his irreverence and his blatant disregard for authority.

He’s so engrossed in the book that he doesn’t hear Frank come in at first. The strong stench of booze hits him first and he furrows his eyebrows, searching for the source. And there’s Frank fucking Gallagher stumbling through the kitchen, filthy and unshaven as always.

Mickey places the book to the side and follows him inside, standing silently in the doorway. Frank is rifling through the pockets of Fiona’s jeans, obviously looking for money. And though he’s been itching for a fight for weeks, Mickey thinks maybe this isn’t really his business.

But when Frank realizes there’s no cash to be found in any of the clothes, he turns and heads straight for the box on the highest shelf. And Mickey remembers the story Ian had told him months and months ago about Monica and Frank raiding the Gallagher’s precious ‘Squirrel Fund’ (seriously, what the fuck kinda name is that?) and blowing it on drugs.

“What you doing there, Frank?” Mickey asks, moving forward.

Frank nearly shits himself. “This is my house,” he slurs, drawing himself up to his full height. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I live here now,” Mickey says. “And unlike you, I was actually invited to stay.”

Frank waves a hand dismissively, attention back on the box. He reaches for it now, pulling it done and easing the lid open. “Well, I’m sure you have other stuff to do, so…”

“Not really,” Mickey says. He takes another step forward, rolling his sleeves up. Just in case. “And just so there’s no confusion, you take one note from that box and I’ll chop your balls off with this butter knife.”

“You wouldn’t,” Frank says, though there’s a flash of something that looks like fear in his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey runs his thumb along the edge of it, watching as the stainless steel catches the light. “Fuckin’ try me.”

Frank doesn’t move, so Mickey does. They’re standing only a couple of feet away from each other now.

“Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Mickey says with a shrug. He lifts the knife and…

“Fine,” Frank says through gritted teeth, clumsily depositing the box back where he’d found it. He looks like he wants to stamp his foot. “Fine. I’m going. But – ”

“Insert ineffective threat here,” Mickey says uninterestedly. “Sure, Frank. Whatever you say.”

Frank shoulders past him roughly and when Mickey turns to watch him leave, he sees Fiona standing in the doorway, Liam in her arms.

Jesus, what is with people sneaking up on him these days? He scuffs at the ground with his shoe, suddenly feeling like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Which he probably was. Threatening the patriarch of a house he’s been essentially leeching off of, even if the patriarch in question is a total asshat deadbeat, is… well, probably kind of a no-no.

“Sorry,” he grunts. “He just came in and started…”

“Hunting for cash? Yeah, that’s nothing new.” Fiona lifts Liam a little higher, obviously trying to keep him as far away from her fancy work clothes as possible. Her eyes are slightly narrowed but not like she’s annoyed. More like she’s reassessing.

“What you doing back here?”

“Liam wasn’t letting me work. I thought maybe Debbie’d be home but I just remembered she had to stay after school for some play thing.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, expression contemplative. “But maybe…”

Mickey doesn’t like where this is headed. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe you wouldn’t mind watching him for a bit?”

Mickey’s eyebrow shoots up so high it nearly disappears into his hairline. “You want me to babysit a toddler?”

“Just for a couple of hours,” Fiona says hopefully.

Mickey looks at the kid. He’s pretty inoffensive as far as babies go. But still. Mickey has never gotten along with children of any shape or size. But how is he supposed to say no to Fiona after everything her family’s done for him?

“I ain’t changing any diapers,” he warns, shoulders drooping in resignation.

The look of relief on Fiona’s face is nearly blinding. “Debs’ll be home soon, don’t worry. Okay, his formula’s in the fridge. His toys are upstairs in Debbie’s room. And I think that’s it?” She gets out a piece of paper from one of her many pockets and scribbles something on it. “Right, okay. This is my number at work, call if you need anything. Seriously. Don’t hesitate.”

Mickey blinks. Before he knows it Fiona is thrusting the squirming child in his direction. He grabs it without really thinking, holding it under the armpits. A safe distance from his body, of course.

“I really owe you for this,” Fiona says, giving him a quick smile. “Thanks a lot, Mickey.”

And then she’s rushing out the front door and he’s alone with the little tike.

“Stop smiling at me,” Mickey tells him, dumping him on the couch. “Okay. I’m going to finish this chapter and you’re going to sit here in silence. Got it?” Liam grins wider, grabbing his toes and rocking back and forth. “And this stays between us,” he adds as an afterthought.

The kid seems determined to keep him from reading though. He crawls toward Mickey almost immediately, reaching for his jacket and yanking it hard.

“Hey,” Mickey says, pulling it out of his grasp. “Watch it.”

Liam surges forward again, plainly undeterred by his warning tone. He tries to grab the book out of his hands this time, fist closing around nothing when Mickey holds it away from him.

“Jesus,” he says, exasperated. “What do you want from me, man?”

Liam lets out a high-pitched giggle.

“I don’t speak baby,” Mickey says. “Right, okay.” He searches for something he can give Liam to distract him and finally finds a headless doll (probably Carl’s) lying near the television. “Here,” he says, handing it to him. “You two play nice now.”

This seems to satisfy Liam, at least for the moment. Mickey goes back to his book, trying to ignore Liam’s nonsensical chattering. He’s barely finished the page when the door bursts open again and Debbie skips in, grinning from ear to ear.

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” he groans, snapping the book shut.

“Mickey,” Debbie says, skipping up to him. She’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Mickey, guess what?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“I got the part!”

“What part?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“The part in the school play! I got it. And that bitch April Turner’s stuck playing a garden gnome.”

“Uh…” Mickey scans his brain for an appropriate word. “Good?”

“It’s not good, it’s great!” She bounces on the spot, frizzy red hair flying. “Oh my god, can I hug you?”

“No,” Mickey says immediately.

“A high-five then?” she asks, undaunted.

And so he reluctantly slaps her tiny palm.

“What you reading?” she demands, flopping down on the couch beside him.

“Nothing,” he says defensively. “That’s not mine.”

“But you were reading it,” she persists. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I know you have your tough guy image to protect, it’s okay.”

“It’s not an image,” he says, visibly bristling.

“Sure it’s not.” She kicks her flip-flops off, tucking her legs underneath herself. “Hey, what time is it?”

Mickey shrugs. “Fuck off o’clock?”

“I think Teen Mom is on right now,” she says, reaching for the remote. “Mind if I watch?”

And because Mickey doesn’t exactly have a plethora of fun things he can do at his disposal (and because his life is obviously a joke), he shrugs. “Whatever.”

 

Ian and Lip get home just as Ru-Paul’s Drag Race is ending. Debbie leaps up immediately, nearly kicking Mickey in the face as she vaults over the back of the couch.

“I got it!” she says, and they seem to require no explanation.

“That’s so great, Debs.” Ian kisses her on the forehead. “Told you you would.”

“April Turner’s playing a garden gnome,” Mickey volunteers, lip curling in amusement, and Debbie howls with laughter.

“We hate her, right?” Lip clarifies, and Debbie nods vigorously.

“You guys have to help me run lines now. You realize that, don’t you?” She gives Mickey a significant look. “And I mean _all_ of you.“

Mickey rolls his eyes. Lip and Ian promise that they will, and she leads Lip inside to show him what she’ll be wearing on the big day.

“Trashy reality TV?” Ian’s wearing an unusually relaxed smirk. “Really?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, switching it off. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“Oh no? I saw you guys sitting together, you looked pretty chummy.”

Mickey hurls a cushion at his head and Ian ducks out of the way, laughing. “Your sister doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“Whatever you say, Mickey.” Still chortling, Ian goes inside. Mickey tries not to smile.

 

* * *

 

Ian’s still trying to process what he’s just witnessed when Fiona gets home. She’s not alone today though.

“This is Mike, you guys. Sells cups with me.” She’s blushing as she says it, just a little. 

Mike, who’s tall and blonde and cute in a floppy kind of way, gives them all a little wave.

Debbie pokes her head around the corner, eyes narrowing. "Is he staying for dinner?” she asks, a plate in hand. She’d been so over the moon all day that she offered to set the table without even being asked. When Fiona nods, she goes to get an extra one from the drawer.

“Hi,” Ian says, going over to shake his hand. “Ian.”

“Good to meet you, Ian.” Mike flashes a dazzling smile that’s probably got all his female employees drooling.

“Lip,” Lip calls on his way up the stairs.

“How do you guys know each other again?” Debbie asks loudly as they walk toward the kitchen.

“We work together,” Fiona says.

“And by that she means I’m her boss.”

Fiona elbows Mike in the side and Mike honest-to-god giggles. It’s sickeningly cute.

“I’m gonna go help Debs,” Ian says with a raised eyebrow in Fiona’s direction, leaving the two of them alone. He hears him say something in a low voice and then hears her laugh loudly, the kind of laugh he hasn’t heard since Jimmy left.

Debbie is already done when he gets there though, so he takes his usual seat at the table. The Chinese take-out had arrived just minutes before Fiona had and he reaches for one of the cartons and digs in immediately.

“Don’t be a Neanderthal, Ian,” Debbie says, snatching it out of his hand. “We have company.”

“So what, I can’t eat?” He pretends to be offended and Debbie rolls her eyes.

“Someone say eat?” Mickey walks down the stairs, drying his damp hair with a towel. It’s such a patently bizarre sight (Mickey showering, Mickey using a _towel_ to dry himself) that all coherent thoughts immediately fly out of Ian’s head. Mickey looks good clean. A couple of strands of hair are stuck to his forehead. You can actually see the light smattering of freckles on his cheeks now.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Ian turns his attention to his empty plate, studying it intently. Mickey, oblivious as usual, pulls out the chair next to it and drops down onto it. “Fuckin’ starving.”

He smells good too. Like soap and smoke and Lip’s deodorant.

“For those of you that haven’t been introduced to him yet,” Fiona says as she and Mike sit down at the table. “This is Mike. We…”

“Work together,” Mickey says, waving a hand. “I think all of fucking Chicago knows that by now.”

Fiona lets out a startled laugh at that and the tiny quirk of Mickey’s lips at the sound just undoes Ian completely. And for the rest of the meal, he’s hyper-aware of his presence, as awful and inconvenient as that is.

When Mickey pretends not to be interested in Debbie’s play stories. When he reluctantly relays the story of how he’d gotten rid of Frank this morning. When his tongue flicks out to lick a drop of sauce off his upper lip.

That’s what does it, really. As soon as Mickey finishes eating and gets up to wash his hands (on Fiona’s insistence), Ian follows him upstairs, watching as he carelessly discards the damp towel on the way.

Mickey doesn’t notice Ian’s behind him until he hears the door slam closed.

“Gallagher,” he says uncertainly, eyebrows furrowed. “Did you… want something?”

“Yes,” Ian says, and takes three steps forward. He nearly knocks Mickey to the ground, pinning his hips against the tub as he fumbles with the front of his jeans.

“Holy – ”

“Shut up.” Ian’s moving too quickly, hands slipping and shaking. Mickey raises himself slightly, shimmying out of his jeans. His eyes are wide and lust-blown now. Ian knows that look well.

When he finally wraps a hand around Mickey’s dick, Mickey makes a noise that should be fucking _illegal,_ a cross between a grunt and a moan, and then he’s reaching for Ian too. And Ian lets him because he’s hard for almost twenty minutes and it’s all Mickey’s damn fault.

There’s no romance in it, not really. Mickey climaxes first and he collapses to the floor in a boneless heap, hand barely moving. But Ian doesn’t need much, not after the sounds he’s just heard come out of Mickey’s mouth, and he spills himself over Mickey’s fingers just seconds later.

They sit there for a minute or two, sticky and panting. There’s a satisfied little half-smile on Mickey’s face. Ian kind of wants to kiss it.

“Can I talk now?” Mickey asks, breaths still uneven. “Shit.”

“If you have to.”

But it turns out how he doesn’t really have much to say. Ian helps him to his feet and they wash the come off their hands together ( _ah, true love_ ). When they get downstairs, no one asks where they’ve been or what took them so long. The only person who looks remotely affected by their disappearance is Lip, who gives the two of them a not-very-subtle knowing look. And it must be the post-sex pheromones at work or something because Ian can’t even muster up any real annoyance about it.


End file.
